


you look like my next mistake

by graceless_wolf



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceless_wolf/pseuds/graceless_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extractors do not fall in love with other Extractors. Those are the rules. Those have always been the rules. Arthur's been following the rules since he started this job. But lately there's been something-- someone-- who makes him think maybe breaking the rules would be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you look like my next mistake

Extractors are not supposed to fall in love with other Extractors. These are the rules. When they do – and they always do – bad things happen. There’s a list of examples somewhere, but he doesn’t need to look at it to know this. The biggest example had always been – _has_ always been Mal and Cobb.

 

These are the rules.

 

You can’t fall in love with someone in a job like this. It will tear you to pieces. You can’t fall in a love like this job creates. That sort of desperately reckless push and pull of the thought that you could lose each other at any moment; it’s not healthy. It doesn’t last. There are too many outside forces, too much at stake, too much to lose. Then, when you lose it, you can’t come back from that edge.

 

These are the rules.

 

So, he doesn’t fall in love with Eames. He doesn’t fall in love so much as he vaguely wanders down a path made up of mirrors and masks all showing different faces; that smells like cigar smoke clinging to the carpet of a casino. He doesn’t fall in love with Eames. There is no violent crashing to the Earth like some star shot straight out of space and into the atmosphere. There is no singular moment he can pinpoint as the exact second in time that his entire world view shifted so that Eames was at the center.

 

It just is.

 

They just are.

 

These are the rules.

 

Not that he’d ever say that, especially not to Eames. Arthur’s never been good at saying things that mean everything. He can take and give orders in equal measure. He can climb into a shared dream space and handle whatever is thrown at him. He knows how to be a soldier. He knows how to be an Extractor.

 

He does not know how to tell Eames that sometimes it feels like the only totem he’ll ever need is the sound of Eames’ heartbeat; like that’s the only tether he has to this reality anymore; like he just needs to find the thread in the darkness of the labyrinth because if Eames is holding onto the other end, he can get there, too.

 

He doesn’t know how to say that sometimes he feels like he’s been set adrift in the middle of the ocean without a life raft.

 

Instead, he wears fitted suits like armor against anything Eames throws at him. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter and that, if he can get through this day; this job, he can walk away and not look back. He can walk away from Eames because Extractors do not fall in love with other Extractors.

 

These are the rules.

 

He will not add his and Eames’ name to the ever growing list of examples.

 

These are the rules.

 

\--

 

“You look positively radiant today, _darling,”_ Eames greets when Arthur walks into the warehouse.

 

“And you’re pulling off the I-found-this-shirt-in-a-dumpster dishevelment with absolute grace _, Mr._ Eames,” Arthur fires back and Cobb glares at both of them. Arthur just shrugs, because really, by now Dom should be used to this. It isn’t a full work day unless he and Eames are at each other’s throats.

 

“Why did I hire either of you again?” Cobb asks, rubbing his temple with his fingers like he always does. He looks better lately, less like Atlas. The world shifted off his shoulders, finally. Seeing his kids again did him good.

 

“Technically,” Arthur points out, “Mal hired me.”

 

_“Technically_ ,” Dom points out, “I fired you three times. Yesterday. Both of you. What are you still doing here?”

 

Eames smirks, “But where would you be without us, huh?”

 

Arthur snorts, “Ignore him, he’s pointless. Where would you be without _me_?”

 

“Excuse you,” Eames says, smile widening, “I’ll have you know I am full of points. One, in particular, actually. Care to see it?”

 

“Dollar. Jar. _Now.”_ Ariadne says as she walks in, and Arthur nods sagely.

 

“Listen to Ari, Mr. Eames. You wouldn’t want to get on her bad side,” he says.

 

“Ariadne has a bad side?” Eames gasps, hopping off the edge of the desk (and really, he has to sit on Arthur’s desk every damn day like he knows what the sight is doing to the already fraying edges of Arthur’s will). “Now there’s a sight I’d like to see.”

 

Cobb actually physically throws the sexual harassment jar at him, saying, “Make it five.”

 

“Aw,” Eames pouts, snagging the jar out of the air just before it hits the ground, “you guys never let me have any fun.”

 

“Fun doesn’t pay the bills, Eames,” Arthur says, faux sweetly, leaning over Eames’ shoulder (and he doesn’t mean to brush his lips against the shell of Eames’ ear, really – but accidents happen), “ _but_ if you keep going at this rate, the money from the jar just might.”

 

Eames just shoves a twenty in the jar and rolls his eyes at Arthur’s pointed look.

 

“You and I both know that I’ll have that paid off by the end of today on you alone,” he says, and Arthur is hard pressed to disagree. He’s also hard pressed to care very much about Eames’ incessant need to torture him with this, but that’s a worry for another day.

 

\--

 

It’s not that he’s in love with Eames.

 

Sure, he’s never been the best with feelings. He’s never told anyone besides family that he loved them, and even that was once, and drunkenly. It’s just not his thing, if he’s being honest. Why ruin a good thing with feelings?

 

Years ago, he talked with Mal about it, and she had waved off his worries with a perfectly manicured hand. “Fuck, Arthur, you really think the only way to show affection is to say ‘ _I love you’_?”

 

“It’s not?” he asked, clutching his beer close.

 

“It’s not,” she said wisely. “People say ‘I love you’ all of the time. In different ways. ‘Don’t forget to bring an umbrella’ or ‘You can talk to me’ or,” she pauses then, and puts on the awful voice that she uses when mimicking him, “’Eames you can’t just jump in front of a loaded gun. _No,_ it doesn’t matter if it’s in a dream or not. _No,_ you don’t get a hug just for surviving that, I can’t _believe_ you would risk your life for such a stupid job—‘”

 

“Okay,” he says, “ _Okay,_ I get it, Mal, Jesus.”

 

“Good,” she said, eyes glinting in the dim lighting. “You’re good for each other, Arthur. Don’t just let that go.”

 

“I’m trying not to, Mal, I just—this job, this _life_ ,” he had trailed off, and she grimaced.

 

“This life,” she said, and it sounded bitter, “This life is bullshit.”

 

At the time, he had no clue that she was coming apart at the seams. He didn’t even realize.

 

Sometimes, he thinks about ‘ _what if,_ ’ but then he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. What if Mal had talked to him about it? What if he and Eames hadn’t turned every goddamn thing they did into a competition? What if Arthur had kissed him when he had the chance, when his cover called for it, but didn’t? He tries again to tell himself that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

 

Mal threw herself out of a window. Her advice, however good it may have sounded at the time, can’t help him now. He feels the weight of the die in his pocket and sighs. Dead men tell no tales.

 

\--

 

“You know,” Eames says, when he strolls into the warehouse at ten am, “I’m beginning to think you work black magic in order to be here so early every god damn morning, pet.”

 

“I got here at eight,” Arthur scoffs, trying desperately not to absolutely drink in Eames’ presence (he fails, incredibly and completely).  “I’d hate to see your definition of getting here late, Mr. Eames.”

 

“I brought coffee,” Eames says appeasingly, and Arthur could kiss him.

 

“I could kiss you,” he says.

 

Eames considers him for a moment, something almost fond in his eyes, before he says, “It’s either not been the best morning, or you’ve been replaced by pod people.”

 

“The former, sadly. Cobb’s fucking me over with this job. I am not qualified to work under such stressful conditions. I’m almost positive there’s a law against this sort of treatment, somewhere. OSHA standards, maybe.” Arthur groans pitifully, grabbing at the coffee Eames hands him and taking several bracing sips. “Bless you, Mr. Eames.”

 

“I believe I was promised a kiss for that, darling.”

 

“I believe that you’re a conman,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. He closes the gap between them in one smooth step, and flicks his eyes to Eames’ lips, dragging them back up to his eyes. Eames is staring at him like he’s just confirmed the pod person theory. When his lips are barely a centimeter away from Eames’, he whispers, “It’s a good thing I’m one, too.”

 

Then he’s back at his desk in another moment and taking a long pull of coffee.

 

“Evil,” Eames says after a few moments, “You are _evil_. You are evil and you need to put a dollar in the sexual harassment jar right now.”

 

Arthur just smiles at him over the rim of the coffee cup.

 

\--

 

“What I wouldn’t give to know what you’re thinking right now,” Eames muses.

 

“Keep your mind on the job, Mr. Eames.” Arthur snorts. “Besides, you know an uncomfortable amount about my psyche already. I’m sure you could make a guess.”

 

Eames grins at him, warm and loose, “Yes, but would it be an _educated_ guess? I do try to keep a spotless reputation, pet.”

 

“You’re failing,” Arthur says, “horribly,” before shooting Eames in the face.

 

Cobb squints at him and says, “Arthur, why did you shoot Eames in the face?” like he’s trying to coax an apology out of a toddler.

 

Arthur clears his throat, “I shot Eames in the face because his mind was obviously not on the job, and I felt, _personally_ , like I was at risk. Therefore, I believe my actions to be justified.”

 

Cobb squints at him some more, but Arthur has already turned away to hide his smile.

 

“What was that for?” Eames sputters when Arthur comes up, and Arthur just lifts an eyebrow.

 

“Your mind wasn’t on the job, Eames. Really, I was doing all of us a favor.”

 

“By shooting me,” Eames says, staring at Arthur blankly, “in the head.”

 

Arthur nods at him, “Now, you’re getting it. Anyways, Cobb was totally for it. He thinks my actions were justified.”

 

Cobb groans from the other side of the room.

 

Eames pouts at him overdramatically, already over the – well, the cold-blooded-that-wasn’t-actually-a-murder-and-sort-of-just-a-prank, but has moved onto much more pressing matters, such as:

 

“You’re scheming with _Cobb_ now, pet? I can’t believe you’d leave me out of these things.”

 

“Oh, don’t look so put out, _darling._ You know it didn’t mean anything, I only love you.”

 

Except the words don’t come out as biting as he’d intended, and then they’re just staring at each other, Eames with a funny expression on his face.

 

But then Ariadne is saying, “Gentlemen, if you’re finished,” and the moment is gone. For hours afterwards, Arthur is tossing the little red die in his hands, like maybe if he throws it enough times, it won’t land on three, and this won’t be his reality.

 

\--

 

When his phone rings at three am, he doesn’t even check caller id; just answers it with a frustratingly tired voice and says, “I swear to God, Eames, if you are not actually on fire, you have no reason to be calling me.”

 

“We’ve been over this before, pet,” Eames says, sounding annoyingly perfect, “I always have a good reason for calling you.”

 

Arthur sits up in bed, clicking on the bedside lamp. The phone is cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he jams him glasses on his face. “What is it this time, then?”

 

“How much money do you have readily available to you right now?”

 

That makes him pause.

 

“What did you _do?”_

 

“I’m putting out feelers for who’s going to bail me out of jail when I publicly murder everyone in that conference room.”

 

It’s so obviously sarcastic that Arthur laughs despite himself, feeling the panic that had been building a knot in his throat slip away, “And you couldn’t have texted me this?”

 

“Time differences are easy to forget,” Eames murmurs, “especially when it comes to you.”

 

They’ve been walking this line for long enough that Arthur knows what he’s trying to say.

 

_I just needed to hear your voice._

“That’s what you get for taking a job on the other side of the world,” Arthur sighs. _I miss you. Hurry back._

“Whatever pays the bills, darling, you know that.”

 

“As always, Eames,” he agrees, “I know.”

 

“Go to sleep, you know-it-all.” Eames says, but his voice is fond, and he sounds much more relaxed than he was when Arthur had picked up the phone originally.

 

Arthur yawns, “Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” and hangs up before he says something he’ll regret.

 

He sleeps better than he has in years.

 

( _Goodnight, Mr. Eames_ , he says, and it translates suspiciously close to _I love you.)_

 

\--

 

He isn’t sure what changes.

 

Only that he went from being able to keep a fairly tight lid on this crush (can he even call it a crush anymore? It feels so much bigger than that.), to every moment he’s in any near proximity to Eames feeling like the whole building’s balancing on a high wire. He has to keep the balance or they’re both going to fall.

 

They’re sitting in the back of a cab on the way to Eames’ apartment after lunch and Eames has mustard on his upper lip. They had lunch at a sandwich place on Long Island. The day is fading slowly, summer sun melting lazily over the horizon. There’s the barest hint of a breeze, but the taxi’s windows are rolled up against it. Arthur doesn’t want to know what the stains on the seats are, and the whole affair smells of cheese. It’s entirely New York.

 

Eames has mustard on his upper lip.

 

He’s chattering on about nothing in particular, recounting a story that Arthur’s heard a million times, but the ending always makes him laugh. Arthur can’t take his eyes off of Eames’ mouth. He leans in, and Eames stops talking abruptly, looking at him curiously.

 

Arthur drags his eyes from Eames’ lips to his eyes, and swallows hard. Eames’ pupils are widening, and Arthur can’t look at that, so he drops his gaze back to the smear of yellow just to the left of the bow of Eames’ upper lip.

 

The backseat of the cab isn’t big to begin with, but after leaning in to examine the blemish, Arthur vaguely notes that the two of them are barely a breath’s width apart, really. He could just lean in and—no. He had a reason for doing this, after all.

 

“You have a little,” he says, voice coming out softer than he’d been expecting, so he shook it off.

 

Eames is still just looking at him, waiting, so Arthur lifts up the hand not gripping the seat of the cab and reaches up, cupping Eames’ chin with his palm. Eames makes a startled noise, but Arthur just moves his thumb to swipe easily down over Eames’ top lip. His skin is soft, but the stubble on his chin scratches pleasantly against Arthur’s hand.

 

“You had—“ he says, removing his hand reluctantly, producing his hand for Eames to see. He then sticks said thumb in his mouth, cleaning off the mustard.

 

“Fuck,” Eames whispers, breathless and hitched, and Arthur’s gone.

 

There are some precipices you just can’t walk away from. Arthur thinks Eames might be one of them. He takes a breath, not nearly big enough, and jumps.

 

Eames tastes like lunch and cinnamon gum, and his fingers drag so lightly against the skin of Arthur’s neck that Arthur’s worried that Eames thinks he’s going to break him. He clutches the fabric of Eames’ shirt in his white-knuckled hands. He’s in the ocean again, drifting, but Eames is the one thing he always knows he can hang onto if he needs it.

 

The kiss starts with Arthur, hungry and feral and wanting, but Eames brings him back to himself, soft and warm and waiting for so long that Arthur is almost afraid that he isn’t going to kiss back. When he does, he seems to come to life under Arthur’s fingers, reaching and hopeful. Arthur honestly doesn’t know how he lasted this long, when Eames’ kisses taste like honey and sweet wine in his throat. He doesn’t know he isn’t going to swallow Eames whole.

 

They pull back, breath spilling softly between them, and Eames’ rests his forehead against Arthur’s.

 

Then he smiles his crescent moon smile and asks, “Your place or mine?”

 

Arthur laughs into the warm skin of his throat. The cab driver hasn’t seemed to notice.

 

Arthur fucking loves New York.

 

\--

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you kiss like you’re trying to win something, pet?” Eames gasps into his mouth, and it takes all of Arthur’s focus to come up with a response. Eames has him pressed into the doorway they just walked through. The term ‘caught between a rock and hard place’ comes to mind. The rock being the door, and the hard place, well.

 

“Has anyone ever told _you_ that you’re a self-righteous ass?” He groans as Eames licks a stripe up his neck.

 

“Yes,” Eames says, biting into Arthur’s skin just long enough to leave a mark, “You have, repeatedly.”

 

Arthur groans, arching into Eames’ hands – they’re burning a claim into his hips, and he can’t even complain. He pulls away just long enough to start tugging hopelessly at the buttons of his shirt, grateful when Eames starts helping. When Eames drops to his knees and undoes Arthur’s button and zipper with his fucking teeth, however, Arthur lets out an honest-to-god whimper and buries his hands in Eames’ hair. “ _Jesus_.”

 

“It’s Eames, actually, but I get that a lot,” Eames says, dragging his lips along the shape of Arthur’s dick through his briefs.

 

“Oh my god _, asshole_ , just suck me off, for the love of – oh, _fuck,”_ he hisses through clenched teeth, as the cool air of the apartment hits his dick when Eames tugs his briefs down to his ankles in one movement.

 

Eames hums, almost calculating, and Arthur tugs his hair – just a little.

 

“I’m getting there,” Eames chastises, and Arthur huffs at him. “Give me a minute to appreciate the view.”

 

Arthur feels Eames’ hands tracing lightly along his thighs, ghosting around and over his dick, before digging into his hips and really, if Eames didn’t do something soon, Arthur was going to kill him. But then, Eames presses a soft, almost reverent, kiss to the head of his dick and any empty threats Arthur had fly out of his head in favor of _fuck shit fuck god dammit Eames holy fuck—_

 

Eames licks up the underside of his dick, and Arthur might actually be dying. He has a ridiculous urge to clutch at his totem. When Eames (finally, fucking _finally_ ) wraps his mouth around Arthur’s cock, one hand wrapped just tight enough around the base, he looks up at Arthur devilishly in a way he really shouldn’t be able to while giving a blowjob.

 

Unfairly attractive asshole.

 

It’s almost sad how quickly Arthur feels himself being brought up to the edge of his orgasm, and he has to swallow down his moan to spit out a warning through clenched teeth. Eames pulls back, sitting back on his heels, and Arthur almost chokes. Eames’ lips are swollen and slick with spit and pre-come, and his pupils are blown as he looks up at Arthur, gaze bordering on adoring.

 

“Couch,” Arthur gasps, pushing up and back on Eames’ shoulder until they’re both scrambling to the couch and falling on top of it and all over each other. He kicked out of his pants and boxers somewhere between the door and the couch. Eames is pressing kisses and bites along Arthur’s neck, and Arthur inhales sharply when he pulls back.

 

“You’re sure?” Eames says, softer than anything, “You’re sure you want this?”

 

“More than anything.” Arthur whispers back. The confession pours into the heady air and though the words are soft, it sets like stone into the fibers of the couch. Eames’ hands are resting lightly against Arthur’s hips, thumbs just brushing his stomach. The gentle fondness of the touch has Arthur shaking. His own shirt is mussed and his tie is choking him. Eames is still fully dressed, which is a wrong he has yet to right. “More than anything, I want you.”

 

Eames makes a choked off noise and presses his lips, hard, to Arthur’s. Hands, he’s not sure whose, start to pull at the buttons of his shirt. Eventually, they get it off, and Eames is hovering just above Arthur on the couch. Arthur swallows down any residual embarrassment (this is Eames, after all), and starts tugging at the button of Eames’ pants. His hand brushes over Eames’ dick and he smirks a little at the fact that Eames is hard already and Arthur’s hardly even touched him. He grinds his palm down and Eames’ hands fly to clutch at Arthur’s shoulders.

 

“Tease,” Eames grits out, eyes shut.

 

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Arthur replies with a smile, flipping them easily and getting to work on taking Eames’ pants off.

 

The couch is relatively small and made of a slick leather, so their bare skin sticks to it and moving is hard, but they’re so closely pressed against each other that it hardly matters, in the end.

 

“Okay,” Eames hisses, sliding hands from Arthur’s neck—he’s sure Eames has a neck thing, now, at least—“Okay. How do you want to—here, or…?”

 

Arthur sits up a little, leaning back on his elbows, and peers at Eames. He seems genuinely worried about this being good, and Arthur is both exasperated and extremely fond. His chest aches with some sort of feeling he doesn’t care to put a name to, but he leans up anyways, and kisses Eames’ on the tip of his nose.

 

“It’s your apartment, so, I guess, you decide if you’re okay with the bed or not? Here works, honestly, I’d just as well do this on the floor, so long as you’re fucking me soon, Eames.”

 

Eames sucks in a breath and lets out a choked off noise, and Arthur runs a hand through his hair.

 

“If that’s okay, I mean. You, fucking me. Every time I thought about this, at least, that’s—“

 

“Oh my god,” Eames groans, leaning into Arthur’s hand. “Stop talking, or you’re going to kill me.”

 

Arthur is worried for a second, but then Eames is kissing him, sloppy and ungraceful, all teeth and tongue and pure want, and Arthur is drowning in it.

 

“Yes, yes that’s—yeah.” Eames gasps, pressing wet kisses down the line of Arthur’s throat until he gets to his collarbones, where he starts to bite and tug at the skin between his teeth. Arthur is barely aware of what he’s saying, that he’s saying anything, only really cognizant of the fact that Eames’ teeth and mouth are on him, and they’ll leave marks, and it’s so fucking good he can’t stand it.

 

“Eames,” Arthur chokes out, tugging on Eames’ shoulders, scratching his fingers up through Eames hair.

 

Eames pulls back to kiss him once, twice, before he brushes his nose against Arthur’s and says, “C’mon, bedroom, this way.”

 

They stumble down a hallway, pausing a few times to kiss and touch and Arthur doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get Eames out of his system. He won’t, he thinks, probably not ever. Eames’ bedroom is sparsely furnished, which is weird, but Arthur isn’t so much focused on that than he is on Eames’ hands on his waist, so he doesn’t bring it up.

 

Extractors do not fall in love with other Extractors. But they can fall into bed together, Arthur thinks, even if it only happens once. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe he’ll finally have something to hold onto.

 

\--

 

He wakes up with Eames’ arm burning where it lays heavy against his hip.

 

Eames looks softer in his sleep somehow, hair a mess from where it’s pressed against the pillow.

 

“You’re drooling,” Arthur tells him, “and it’s gross.”

 

Eames snores in response and something in Arthur’s chest twists painfully and he has to get _out of here._

 

When he slips out of the apartment ten minutes later, he only looks back once.

 

\--

 

They don’t talk for a week, and the next time they see each other is in the warehouse. Eames nods at him once, a tight, jerky motion, and Arthur wants to burn the building down around them.

 

He hardly notices Cobb is still talking.

 

“Okay, so this job—”

 

“Will Eames be working it with us?” Arthur asks, sharp and not looking at Eames at all. He has to know; already _knows,_ but still has to ask.

 

Cobb considers him – considers them both – for a moment before nodding, “Yes, it’s the same team as—well.”

 

Arthur nods, “Alright,” and then Eames steps to his own defense.

 

“Why would you ask that?”

 

Arthur just stares straight ahead at the blank piece of wall behind Dom’s head. “Simple curiosity. I happen to enjoy knowing exactly who I’ll be working with.”

 

“Me,” Eames says, spitting the words, “ _Me_ , Arthur. What will you be working with if _I’m_ on this job?”

 

He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that everyone in the room realizes that this is not something they need to witness. Long enough that Arthur can feel his heart swelling up to balloon in his throat. Long enough for both Ariadne and Cobb to leave the room, off to find whoever the fuck else, and Arthur knows he has to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. He says nothing until Eames has already grabbed his coat and is halfway out of the room.

 

“I’d be working with _you,”_ Arthur says, at last, like the confession might just break him, “obviously. I’d be working with a reckless, irresponsible idiot. I’d be working with the constant threat of I don’t know what you’re thinking anymore over my head. I’d be working—I’d be working purely with the drive to keep you alive. When you—when we work together, I can’t focus correctly. Not on Cobb, not on the plan, not on the dream. Nothing. _Nothing_ , but this ridiculous need to keep your sorry ass alive because, dammit, Eames, I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you like I’ve lost every other god forsaken thing I’ve ever cared about.”

 

The words echo harshly, bouncing off the walls until they settle. When they do, Arthur sucks in a ragged breath. “I can’t—Eames, I _can’t_. This job, what we do, I can’t lose you to it. I can’t wake up and know that you’re in limbo, or dead, or just _lost_. Like—like so many others. You _know,”_ because he can’t say her name, not right now, but they both know who, _“_ and I couldn’t— _Eames_ , I won’t. I won’t lose you like that. I won’t do it.

 

“You need someone who you can wake up next to and not wonder if maybe you’re still dreaming. You need to love someone who isn’t more dream than human being. I’m sorry, Eames—I’m so sorry I can’t be that for you.”

 

He leans forwards in his seat and rests his elbows on his knees. His hands feel like useless, needless things, so he pushes them through his hair.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, but can’t bear to be ashamed of the quiver in his voice. He’s gotten this far, damn it all, he can say the rest. “I love you, and I am _sorry_.”

 

He looks up at Eames through the doorway, and the door feels like just another layer on top of the mountains and oceans and valleys they’ve been building between each other all these years.

 

He leaves before Eames can even reply.

 

He isn’t followed.

 

\--

 

Arthur is thoroughly enjoying his time in wherever-the-fuck-middle-of-nowhere: the bar edition, when Ariadne slides into the seat next to him. She doesn’t even give him a moment to register that she found him for some reason; doesn’t let him ask why; just says:

 

“Here’s the thing about Eames: he doesn’t know how to deal with the sudden freight-train realization in his brilliant fucking mind that he might be the littlest bit in love with you.”

 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Ariadne and sets down the glass. It clinks against the bar, a soft noise, almost as soft as his exhale. “The littlest bit?”

 

Ariadne smiles at him, pats his shoulder. “That’s all he can really handle right now, but don’t worry. It’s obvious to anyone who’s been in a room with either of you for more than ten seconds that he’s so far gone over you, if you said jump, he’d already be in the air.”

 

“Now that’s ridiculous,” Arthur says, taking a too-long pull from his glass until it’s empty. “Eames wouldn’t _jump_ for anyone.”

 

She looks at him for a long time. “That boy would slay dragons for you.”

 

“Dragons don’t exist, Ariadne.”

 

Then she’s gone, and all he’s got is an empty glass and the beginnings of a brain-splitting headache and a partner – work partner – who threatened his insides with a rusty spoon the other day, and is supposedly in love with him.

 

“It’s a shame, too,” he mutters, “that dragons don’t exist.”

 

\--

 

He wakes up with a god awful headache and a bad idea, which, really, is relatively normal for a Sunday in his line of work.

 

“Oh my god,” he grumbles as he crawls out of bed, “I think something died in my mouth.”

 

He brushes his teeth until it hurts and drinks coffee from the pot. Then he calls Eames.

 

“Arthur? Are you alright? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but Ari said that--”

 

“Dragons don’t exist.” Arthur interrupts.

 

“What in God’s name are you talking about, darling?”

 

And that, right there, the thoughtless use of the pet name that Arthur never thought about, never needed to think about gives him hope.

 

“Dragons don’t exist, and we need to see each other because I am not doing this over the phone,” he insists. He knows he probably sounds all kinds of panicked and nervous because, damn it, he is all kinds of panicked and nervous and this is such a bad idea, but he’s already gone with it.

 

There’s a long pause over the other end of the line, and Arthur doesn’t know what Eames is thinking – can’t see his face – and it is infuriating.

 

“Okay,” Eames says, “Okay.”

 

Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes. “I’ll meet you in the middle, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The line goes dead.

 

\--

 

“The middle” is a park on the other side of the city. It’s not really in the middle of anything, except for a few shops and a baseball field, but it’s still the “middle.” A place of sentimental value. He spends the drive there going over and over what he’s going to say when he sees Eames. Probably something like, “I love you, you crazy bastard,” but that plan isn’t set in stone, yet.

 

When he walks up to their bench – and isn’t that a funny thought; their bench – Eames is already there, and any plans he may have half-assed in the car fly out of his head.

 

“Eames,” he says, like Eames doesn’t already know he’s there.

 

“Arthur,” Eames says, like he doesn’t know Arthurs knows Eames knows he’s there.

 

“I don’t--,” Arthur begins, then stops. He takes a deep breath; seems to be taking a lot of those lately; starts over. “I don’t need you to slay dragons for me.”

 

“What the bloody hell are you on about?”

 

Eames’ brow is furrowed, but he’s almost smiling. Arthur can tell.

 

“It’s something Ariadne said, but I don’t need you to slay dragons for me. Dragons--,” he gestures vaguely around them, “Dragons don’t exist, Mr. Eames. They don’t. We do not currently live in a world where you would ever need to slay one for me.”

 

They’re standing less than two feet away from each other now; close enough that Arthur can see the rings under Eames’ eyes, close enough that he can see Eames’ breath in the cool November morning. He wants to step closer, but he doesn’t, not yet.

 

“I promise, Arthur,” Eames says, sounding both deadly serious and faintly amused, “I will never slay a dragon in your name, ever.”

 

“Good,” Arthur says, suddenly, “Good, because I don’t need you to. I can slay my own dragons, if we ever encounter dragons. Which I doubt because, _Eames_ , damn it, dragons don’t exist. This life is shitty and awful and sometimes we are going to get hurt, I know, but I don’t need you to slay dragons for me. That’s not what I need you here for.”

 

Eames just stares at him for a long moment, clutching his cardboard coffee cup. “What do you need me here for, then, darling?”

 

Arthur stomps his foot, knowing he probably strongly resembles a petulant toddler, but can’t find it in himself to care very much.

 

“I need you to just _be there_ , Eames. I need you to be alive and breathing and safe and _there_ , because I don’t know how I’d get through this job if you weren’t there. You—We—I think maybe, maybe that’s how people get through these things. By tethering themselves to each other and I am _tethered_ to you and I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and you need to be there.”

 

He’s tethered to Eames so tightly and with so much string that one tug could send them both unraveling into limbo, but he thinks maybe that’s okay. Living with the weight of “I could die today” on your shoulders every morning – maybe this is only way to love another person.

 

“Says the man who left before I even woke up,” Eames says, soft, but he’s smiling in the strangest way. “You do realize, of course, that I knew all of this? I thought it was something we both understood.”

 

Arthur is silent for a moment, because he knows that Eames knows, but _he_ didn’t. He had no clue.

 

“I thought you were trying to slay my dragons,” he says, staring intently at a tree just to the left of Eames’ head. “I thought you _pitied_ me, or thought you could fix me, but – you can’t slay my dragons, Eames, and I can’t slay yours.”

 

Eames moves to close to distance between them, but Arthur is already there. He isn’t sure who kisses who first; isn’t sure of anything but Eames’ hand on the side of his face and the small of his back and the fucking world drops out around both of them. All he knows is that it is okay to fall, it is okay to let go because the tethers will catch him when he does. It's okay to feel as though he's drifting. He's got a buoy for when the waves get too rough.

 

“You know,” Eames whispers when they part, “my dragons are pretty big. There may not be enough room for both of us and them.”

 

“Your dragons have nothing on my dragons.” Arthur replies, just as quiet.

 

Eames smiles, bright and beautiful in the morning air. “Has anyone ever told you that you turn everything into a competition?”

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain in the ass?”

 

“But you love me anyways,” Eames grins, kissing him again.

 

“But I love you anyways,” Arthur mumbles against his lips, “You and your giant dragons.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @ocdjoly on tumblr! come say hi!


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